


A Woman One Should Stay Far Away From

by let_me_read_you_a_romance



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy (Off-Broadway Cast) RPF, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2019-01-13
Packaged: 2019-09-12 13:18:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16873614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/let_me_read_you_a_romance/pseuds/let_me_read_you_a_romance
Summary: Marya and Hélène have a complicated history. When old feelings resurface it could not have worse timing.





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> The first 2.5 chapters are gonna be mostly exposition but I promise there's actual dialogue!

There was a time when warmth was a concept. Prevalent, but unreachable. When as high as the wood in her fireplace piled, none of the heat reached Marya D. When the foyer was grand and she was never alone, forever pressed to the arm of a man she did not love. She was lonelier then even than now, despite the fact that nobody else had occupied her magnificent house in almost ten years. Not since she had forced them out herself.

Marya was well versed in loneliness. She greeted it every morning like an old friend, rolling over in a bed that was too big and too cold to revel in the unnatural silence. She was no stranger to the cold, having lived in the dead center of Moscow her entire life, but this was a different kind of cold. An absence that she had made peace with years ago, for if that empty side of her bed were to be filled, Moscow would riot. Even where people were more free-thinking, people like her were soon weeded out. If she were anyone but herself - a well-regarded traditionalist - her secret would’ve been exposed ages ago by those who existed only to ruin the lives of others. Gossips, journalists of Moscow, even friends would tell everybody they knew, and Marya had had enough time alone to think it through. At least, she did until the girls came to town.

Her family, Marya remembered when she tore it open. She’d almost forgotten, they’d been estranged for so long. That letter’s arrival likely saved Marya D., for a widow could only last so long on her own despite a considerable fortune left to her family’s name. Isolation would have killed her long before poverty would - another fact of life she’d made peace with. Her goddaughter, the light of her life, Natasha (and her cousin Sonya who Marya had only met briefly but liked well enough) would be in town. It was the best news Marya had received in many months, even beating out Semanova’s return to Moscow’s stage. She spent the following days preparing as best she could on her own - she even hired back two of her family’s servants whom she had been forced to let go due to financial deficit, and having them back in the house brought on a great swell of warmth in Marya’s heart.  
When the girls arrived, she greeted them with a smile so broad it stretched muscles in her cheeks she had grown unaccustomed to using. She had dear old Pierre here in Moscow of course, but he was no joy to be around anymore. Her goddaughters brightened her life considerably - and quite literally. With two more occupants, her house’s fireplaces lit and lamps stayed on, and Marya no longer had an excuse to sit in the dark.

After so much time though, so much light in the house was jarring, and she had not stretched her legs in a very long time. The only way she had maintained an acceptable figure was because she prepared all of her meals herself - and she was not very good at cooking. Her meals consisted mostly of old bread and any vegetables she could scrounge up at the markets. Decent meat was difficult to come by, even for the very fortunate during Moscow’s winters, so she simply didn’t eat it. Despite the fact that it was doubtfully nutritious, a life of high-society living had provided Marya some unsustainable standards that she was not willing to stoop beyond; so when the opportunity arose to take her guests out for dinner she leapt at the chance.

Privacy was not expected, and anybody who thought otherwise was soon set straight - namely Sonya, who had been hoping for a quiet dinner and been succinctly denied it. Passerby gawked shamelessly - through windows, across the dining room, even as they ate. Marya could have sworn she saw an official with dozens of badges proudly displayed over his breast nearly impale himself with a fork as he stared. Marya scowled, but Natasha didn’t mind as much; and Marya found that watching Natasha’s softly radiant smile began to fill that persisting void piece by piece.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More exposition hurray but there's actual interaction in it sooo

For Hélène Kuragina, life could not have been more different. Where loneliness and void had been Marya’s reality, Hélène lived lavishly, surrounded by both her family; and her family’s overcompensating circle of friends. Where Marya’s foyer had long since gone cold and dusty, Hélène’s house was never empty, and the countess herself never seemed to be home even so. She could be found on the arm of whomever she’d deemed worthy for the night - more often than not her brother Anatole, or Fedya Dolokhov, a renowned assassin who was a close friend of the family. Where Marya was observed from afar and regarded with an isolated sort of terror, Hélène was observed up close and personal, accompanied by a broad smile and the expensive flash of pearl. Where rumors about Marya had long since died out, they followed Hélène like ducklings squabbling for attention, each one courted and occasionally even entertained. Where Marya detested the all-seeing eye of the public, Hélène performed for it, relished in it. Hélène lived her life in the spotlight - regretting little and leaving even less to the imagination.

And as many complicated barriers, history and social polarizations separated the two, Hélène found her eye drifting to the secluded Great Dragon. Few members of Moscow’s upper class had evaded Hélène’s watch, but Marya had managed to remain one of the city’s biggest mysteries as of the past years. Mysteries were not to be tolerated, especially ones with hair like fire and eyes so deep they drew her in no matter how many years passed. Hélène had only begun to remember as of recently, specifically when Pierre invited Marya over for lunch the past fall. She’d stuck around out of pure curiosity - for who in all of Moscow could be described as an old friend of her choicely isolated husband? When Pierre announced that his friend had arrived, Hélène had been expecting the worst - perhaps Andrei or his family, whom she hated. 

The very last thing she could’ve imagined was this particular shadow from her past, a slight smile like the knowing look of a wild cat curving full red lips. She had been admittedly distracted throughout the entire meal after Marya had sat down, wondering how Pierre had managed to remain friends with her after her own falling out with Moscow’s Great Dragon. After that she found her gaze wandering to back to Marya whenever possible. That was not allowed, which the both of them had expressly decided long before. Even so, she found herself drifting back to those days more than ever before.

Somehow, Hélène found, they were together most often despite many social and moral differences. Not to mention personal ostracization. Even so, they attended similar social events, were invited to the same dinner parties, drank the same musty wine with the same spoiled aristocrats. She never got the opportunity to speak with her though, until a couple days before she became the center of Moscow’s attention.

“How is it that you’ve managed to avoid me at every single one of these parties?” Hélène asked, sidling up to Marya, wine glass in hand.

Marya merely raised a brow and set her own glass down on a nearby table. “I was under the impression it was mutual.”

Hélène ignored the jibe and continued, the corner of her lip twitching up. “You can’t hold this against me after all these years, darling…”

A twinge of tension spliced the air between them for a moment before Marya replied.

“Countess Bezhukova,” she said, folding her arms and tilting her shoulders back. She had at least a couple inches on Hélène, although it could have been her boots. Either way, the look she affixed Hélène with was enough to make her feel considerably smaller because of its familiarity alone. “It’s hardly been enough time for me to forget.”

“Ah because years are nothing when one has been alone for long enough.”

Marya’s face did not change. Marya did take careful care to conceal. Hélène knew it better than anybody, but she would be lying saying she did not miss the days when Marya could conceal nothing from her. Nowadays, even she did not know all there was to be uncovered about Marya Dmitrievna.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to melodramatic flashbacks.

“Yelena?!” Marya roared. The force of it rattled the chandelier above her head.

 

Hélène came rushing down the stairs, nearly tripping over the edges of her borrowed nightdress as she came. Marya’s stomach did not flutter, as was the typical indicator of Hélène’s appearance, but churned.

 

“Darling, what could possibly be the matter-“ Hélène began.

 

“Don’t you dare “darling” me, Kuragina,” Marya snapped, slamming her palm into the wall beside Hélène’s head. “Pierre! Really? My oldest friend!”

 

Hélène opened her mouth to respond but quickly fell silent.

 

“Out of all of the noblemen of Moscow, and now of all times?!” Rage blinded her to tears welling in Hélène’s eyes, uncommon tears, unheard of tears. Nobody had seen Hélène Kuragina cry since she was a girl - since her mother died, leaving Hélène with a cold and distant father and two younger brothers. Marya certainly hadn’t, and even so she would not have cared. The world slid out from beneath her. The edges bled together and the walls seemed to cave. She pushed Hélène further back against the wall if only to ground herself.

 

“You’re marrying Pierre?” Marya hissed, “What will become of our- of your lifestyle, Countess? Your free nights, your cocktail parties, and him! He does not love you, Yelena, he is incapable of it right now! What could you possibly hope to-“ Marya froze.

 

Not a single tear streaked Hélène’s face as she lifted a hand to Marya’s wrist. She had learned not to let them spill. After all, what good might they do in the face of a dragon?  
“Maryushka, you can’t possibly think that I am marrying your oldest friend for advantage…” Of all things, Hélène smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile, like the one Marya had grown accustomed to waking up next to, but a brittle one, a callous smile. It was the same smile she gave the men she spent just enough time on at parties so that they might buy her a drink and she could spend the rest of her night on the arm of somebody else.

 

“But I bore you,” Marya said, her voice poignant as a gathering of clouds, and twice as foreboding. She yanked her wrist free and took a defiant step back. “You’ve tired of us.”

 

“If you must put it so bluntly…”

 

As many people as Marya had watched Hélène toss aside, Marya somehow never thought she would be one of them. The words were a slap to the face. Marya could feel them, a burn that scraped her raw.

 

“Get out of my house.” Marya said, her voice steely.

Long after Hélène had exited the Ahkrosimov manor, the silence after the storm stayed. It stayed for years. It stayed like a rusty bullet in a box. Like lead remained in the blood. No matter how much time passed, the toxicity, the wrongness of it remained. It followed her like a shadow, and clung to the threads of her clothes. Each time she entered her estates empty foyer was like being plunged into ice water. After all, old habits die hard.  
Hélène used to disappear from society for days at a time. It used to be one of Marya’s greatest prides, coming home after hearing countless rumors about the countess’s whereabouts to find her waiting upstairs. Even after she’d dismissed the servants she could find Hélène there. This was what had truly fooled her into thinking that for once Hélène might stay - the unbridled truth that Hélène stayed even after Marya’s decline had begun. The rawness that came automatically with people like them deciding that whatever they shared was worth the risk. Sometimes Marya relished the thought that the pair of them might fall into history’s collection of unmarried and untouched lovers. Marya had read enough classic literature to recognize love like her own brushed aside time and time again, but had never imagined it for herself. With Hélène, she thought that perhaps there had been a chance.  
It was because of this that each time Hélène’s name died in her throat was another slap to the face. It was Marya’s fathomless and irrational hope being quashed like a spark that reminded her each time to stop hoping. That reminder was all that kept her going for a long time.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things start to happen wow what a surprise. Also since it's winter break I might post twice a week instead of once! Prepare for a sh*tload of melodrama and terrible dialogue.

Of course, Marya was right. Over her dead body would Hélène admit it, but shortly after marrying Pierre she found Marya had been quite correct. Pierre did not love her. At least not for long. It was quite like one of Anatole’s fleeting fancies - something she’d hoped to distance herself from by marrying Pierre. For how deeply she loved her brother, his lack of depth grew tiresome. She used to be the same way, and it had gained her nasty reputation. Anatole would have the same one should he have been the older of the pair, though of course because of his sex the same characteristics would have earned him the title “player”; a badge of honor in their circles. Sometimes she was ashamed of her kinship with such shallowness, other times proud. After all, it protected her from some pain that would’ve otherwise shattered her. In moments of hope, she occasionally thought such embedment was intentional - that perhaps her cold family had raised them this way purposely so that the children might avoid deeper emotional hardship. Such moments passed as quickly as they came.  
In the months following her marriage to Pierre her shame grew more powerful. Her thoughts drifted often to Marya, and more than once she considered falling at her doorstep to plead forgiveness. Such thoughts didn’t last long. After all, if Moscow’s Great Dragon was angry it was best to leave her be if one valued their dignity. Many rumors alluded to even deeper savage tendencies, but anybody who took a moment to ask was quickly set straight. After all, Marya D. would never tolerate the smell nor the stain of blood in her red carpet. The thought of it was intoxicating, Marya standing above her, her whip in hand (another rumor that Hélène knew personally to be true though to her recollection Marya had never used it).  
Even though she knew better than to suspect Marya of violence, there were other ways to injure that Hélène was far more familiar with. Even if Marya’s bark was worse than her bite, her words were terrifying. There was a time when such degradation inspired something animal in her, but she knew that now that it would tear her to shreds, just like it would anybody else. And just as the rest of Moscow dreaded Marya’s rage, Hélène did. And just as the rest of the Moscow knew better than to approach the thresh of the Dragon’s lair, Hélène did too.

“Absolutely not.” Hélène frowned. “There is no way I’m going back there.”

 

“Elena, please, be reasonable,” said Pierre, a familiar crease appearing on his brow.

 

“Don’t call me that, Pierre, have I not said it a million times?”

 

“Apologies, though I still don’t know why you hate your birth name.”

 

There were reasons for that. Ones she thought she’d tell him in time, but it had quickly been made clear they were not to get close enough for that. “I’m not going to the opera,” Hélène said again, sitting placidly in a chair.

 

“You treat it like a prison, as if you did not once love it. What changed in this time?”

 

“Why don’t you go, if you long to see your dear friend again so badly. I hear she asks after you,” Hélène insisted, dodging the question. Seeing Marya was the last thing Hélène wanted, especially since her attempt at contact at the party the previous week. Clearly she was not the only one for whom old wounds were still fresh.

 

“I have work to do, this is not a discussion.” Pierre rubbed his forehead. Hélène used to find this endearing, charming even, but it had grown a nuisance just like the rest of him.

 

“I’m not a child, Pierre,” Hélène said, her hands gripping the armrests of her chair.

 

“Your brother will be there, as will Dolokhov if you two are still… carrying on.”

 

Hélène raised a brow. Pierre had grown stubborn and irritable as time passed. It was evident in the sudden wrinkles etched across his forehead, and the copious amounts of liquor that passed through the household. She sighed and stood.

 

“Fine. But you owe me a bottle of champagne. The good stuff, none of that terrible wash from that solicitor Onufrich.”

 

“I’ll have you know that Dmitri is a family friend, and you aren’t getting any more Parisian champagne.”

Sometimes Hélène wondered if it was worth it. Living under Pierre’s wing. It permitted her lifestyle to flourish, but also came with certain requirements she wasn’t sure she could bear - specifically the distinct link to him that was made whenever she came round a social setting. She hated the way his name sounded paired with her own - yet whenever she went out it was announced to a room full of socialites. This was the primary reason why she’d stopped going to the opera in recent months - when she made her grand entrance, she was immediately recognized as Bezhukova. Of course, her grand smile and flashing pearls were an easy distraction, as was Dolokhov’s arm under hers. He glanced down at her with a wry smile.

 

“The old man nagging again?” he asked, giving her arm a squeeze.

 

“Since when have we discussed such matters.” Hélène murmured, catching a glimpse of gold jewelry and red hair across the room. Her heart leapt into her throat. She swallowed it.

 

“Since coming to the opera has become a chore for you, ma'cheri,” Dolokhov pushed as the two of them strode across the floor, his chest pushed out but his eyes level with hers.

 

“Fedya!” Thank God for her brother. Her smile returned as she detached from Dolokhov to embrace him. “And my dear sister, a spectacle as usual,” Anatole said, slinging an arm around her waist and yanking her to his chest. She laughed and pressed a loud kiss to his cheek, drawing all the eyes in the room from the two young beauties in the foyer to their reunion, including those of the girls themselves. And their chaperone. Hélène avoided her gaze, focusing pronouncedly on the lipstick mark she’d left on Anatole’s cheek.  
“Ah but is that not your long lost paramour, sister?” Anatole said, looking directly at Marya and the girls.

 

Hélène’s easy smile suddenly required a lot more effort. “It is,” she said, unhooking her arm from around her brother and turning around. When Anatole started after her she swatted his chest. “Go get us drinks, I’ll see you at the seats,” she said and left him there before he could protest.

 

Each step was excruciating, and Hélène half expected the floor to give out before she reached them. She remained ever grateful for Paris’s fantastic gowns to hide her gait as she came close enough to make out the words Marya spoke to the pair of girls. Countess Bezhukova, she said, Pierre’s wife. Hélène winced. She blinked it away as she approached the wide-eyed pair of girls, resettling a smile on her lips.

 

“How beautiful,” she mused, letting her gaze rest on the darker of the two, the one whose eyes were softer and more curious. Natasha. Natasha blushed furiously, and Hélène’s smile became more natural. She was young, she was easy. Hélène found interacting with girls like her far more pleasant than the more uptight women of society, though less in the way some might suspect. The ordeal might not have been as painful had she avoided Marya’s eyes altogether, but, as with any interaction with the Dragon, she did not have a choice. Regret flooded her conscious as her eyes settled on stormy gray ones. She did not miss the tightening at the corner of Marya’s mouth. She completely missed the next words out of Natasha’s mouth, and missed her cousin almost entirely. In a way, Sonya resembled a softer variant of Marya. Smaller, and kinder, with hair of the same color but far lighter. Her cheeks were round and flushed, like Natasha’s. It was the eyes that were most striking though, for they reminded her of Pierre. Serious, and studious, the calm before Marya’s storm. She quickly snapped back to Natasha and the patience with which she waited for Hélène to reply. She flashed a bright smirk and allowed her hand to brush Natasha’s fingers before whirling away in a flurry of silver and green gauze.

 

Once she was out of their sight she let herself slip behind a pillar and leaned her shoulder against it. The inquisitive innocence in Natasha’s eyes danced in her vision. She was just as Hélène herself was before she married Pierre: excitable and joyful, the rest of the world seeming so much wider and warmer than it did to her now. If she recalled, Natasha was betrothed too - just as hopeful as Hélène had been during her engagement period - and naive to boot. In every sense of the word, there was a great chance Natasha was making a huge mistake, as she had. They were more alike than Hélène had thought, and it terrified her. The devastation that poor young girl was about to experience. There had to be something Hélène could do to stop it.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow actual plot, never would've guessed.

“She wasn’t here, was she?” Natasha asked, nudging Sonya, who glanced up at her.

 

“What?”

 

“The countess, she seemed awfully far away,” Natasha said, a slight frown on her face. “It was in her eyes, she was a million miles away.”

 

“Nonsense, Natachka,” Marya said airily, waving a bejeweled hand, though she was still reeling herself. Curse her intuitive goddaughter. “The countess loves the opera, she would be nowhere else.” A lie. Hélène only attended the opera for the social spectacle - a chance to see and be seen - as most of Moscow did. Marya was one of few who genuinely enjoyed it. It was easy to tell who came for the art simply by engaging them in conversation, for the truly dedicated fans like herself were the only ones who knew the proceeding singers who would arrive in coming months; or, an easier catch, who knew what an aria was.

 

“Now hurry along, the curtain rises in ten minutes,” she said, waving them away so they might explore. Anything for some space.

 

While she and Hélène were together one of their favorite pastimes was to attend the opera, even if Marya always had more fun. They would discuss it on the way home, or Marya would summarize it for Hélène, who would watch her as if she shone like all the stars in the sky. How Marya hated how she wanted to tear her lifelong friend apart when that gaze turned to him. She missed Pierre dearly, but she couldn’t help but resent him. Even if he had no way of knowing it, he had taken something precious from her, something she would never get back even if she wanted to. How she wanted to. Even while the girls stayed with her, after they’d gone to sleep Marya would sit by the fire and think about it. Hélène no longer had any right to her thoughts, or her time, but what else had Marya to think about? The girls, of course, and they provided a welcome distraction, but they had so few problems that Marya needn’t dwell on them. For all Natasha’s ramblings about the effervescent night under the moon that had “brought her the love of her life,” she really couldn’t complain about his absence; for he would soon return and the two of them would run off like the pair of lovesick rabbits they were. Sometimes it made her sick, and she hated that.  
Marya loved her goddaughter with all that was left in her, and it wasn’t by any means just her. All the sickeningly lovey-dovey couples that populated Moscow arose a nauseous feeling in her stomach, for she had been so close to being the same way. Of course, she and Hélène could never have been so public, but there was a level of satisfaction that came with a guise that she’d hoped to hold onto for as long as time would allow. The secret glances across rooms, the nods and side eyes that turned to heat in adjacent corridors - despite Marya’s inclination toward traditionalism there was nothing she loved more than the raw intensity of a secret. The only issue with them was that once the fun part fizzled out, the pain that endured was to be bore alone. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

“I never meant to hurt you, you know,” Hélène said. She leaned against a pillar twirling a strand of pearls around two fingers.

 

Marya’s head jerked up, her cheeks burning. Her eyes flew first to Hélène and her careless pose, and then to her two goddaughters, whose gazes were about to land right on her.  
“Go back to the box, girls,” Marya said quickly.

 

“But-”

 

“Now.” They knew better than to argue, and once they had disappeared up the stairs Marya hurried over to Hélène. Her heart slammed against her ribcage. Bad idea! Bad idea! Bad idea! It told her. She was a fool to ignore it, but in her typical fashion, Hélène had revoked her choice in the matter.

 

“What is the meaning of this!” Marya seethed, sliding into the space between the wall and the pillar where the corner closed the pair of them off from the rest of the opera-goers. Hélène merely smiled, slipping from the pillar to join Marya on the other side.

 

“I’ve tired of this silence, ma’cheri,” Hélène purred, butchering the French as usual. It set off the same irritation as it did back when this was commonplace, but instead of it being accompanied by a flutter in her heart it was coupled with a bout of nausea.

 

“I no longer must tend to your whims, Countess, now if you’ll excuse me-” before Marya could slip back to the crowd Hélène grabbed the fur collar of her shrug and pulled her back so they stood face to face, quite a bit closer than was appropriate even among family.

 

“Marya, you cannot stand here and tell me you haven’t missed us,” she said, pressing herself closer to Marya, who found herself quite trapped between Hélène and an unforgiving wall. Truth be told, a more forgiving situation than this one would be a chandelier dropping from the ceiling to quash them both. After all, the tilt of Hélène’s head was just enough so her rich brown eyes turned flickering amber under the candles far above. It would be far easier should they be crushed.

 

“I don’t see how you have the right to make such assumptions, Countess-”

 

“Since when has that ever stopped me?”

 

“- and in front of the girls,” Marya hissed, yanking Hélène’s hand from her collar. “You could have endangered the both of us, as well as them.”

 

Hélène took a step back. “Of course, Marya,” she sighed, adjusting a strand of pearls back into place. “If I must tell the truth they are the reason I must speak with you.”  
Marya lifted her chin and raised a brow. “And why is that?”

 

“You saw my brother is back in town, yes?”

 

“How could I have missed him? He must spend all of that money from your father on his hair, it was obvious from the foyer.”

 

“Ah yes, that was always the point,” Hélène said fondly. “In any case, it’s him I must warn you about. I assume you’ve heard all the rumors that surround him?”

 

“Ah yes. And which of them has become a threat now?” Marya rolled her jaw. The rumors that followed Hélène around Moscow were second only to those that tailed her brother. The Kuragins were known for many things, but the one common suspicion that concerned them all was their affinity for attracting and breaking women. Anatole was most notorious for it. Some rumors claimed he’d slept with half the opera company, and some even pushed so far as to assume unruly activity between himself and Hélène. Thankfully the latter was restricted only to raucous public displays of affection, but the same could not be said about the rest of the rumors. The siblings themselves cared little to dissuade any of them, for some were true, but the concerning rumor would be far more dangerous.

 

“That of his… perusal of younger women,” Hélène clarified.

 

“If what you’re trying to say is that he intends to pursue my Natalia-”

 

“Yes, that’s exactly it-”

 

“Don’t interrupt me.” Marya’s eyes flashed with irritation. “If what you mean to tell me is that he may try to court Natasha, why not simply advise him against it?”

 

Hélène nearly laughed out loud at the suggestion. “Marya, you of all people must understand that he listens to nothing and nobody.”

 

“So why come to me?”

 

“Because dear Natasha listens to you. And because every time my brother becomes attached to a new pretty thing he undergoes the same lovesick transformation, and I do not trust myself to be able to stop him.”

 

“Then why not write? Why threaten both of our security to tell me here?” Marya already knew the answer. Had Hélène written she would have burned the letter without so much as opening it.

 

“I thought it was the danger you used to love so much about us, ma’cheri,” Hélène said, the slightest hint of a smirk pulling her pretty mouth. Marya shuddered.

 

Naturally, the situation had to get worse. To Marya’s abject horror, a tower of blonde hair and accompanying physique slid around the corner. Marya shoved Hélène back, straightening herself as Anatole beheld the two of them, a terrible grin gracing his face.

 

“Ah, there you are, sister,” he said, his eyes sliding over to Marya as if she were an extra treat to be found at the bottom of a pile. “And the Great Dragon. I can’t say I’m surprised on your behalf. As for my sister-”

 

“Do shut up, Kuragin,” Marya snarled. New and increasingly terrible ways for the public to find out about herself and Hélène just kept piling on that evening, for Anatole discovering them was not a minor inflection. Marya held nothing but contempt for the man, and the fact that he was friends with Pierre - Hélène’s husband and Marya’s closest friend - was no small contribution to her anxiety. Additionally, Anatole was a drunk. Marya herself had learned to handle her vodka long ago, but she seemed to be the only one for a city so dependent on it. Even sober, Anatole was nosy and troublesome, but even an honest man could not be trusted when he drinks. Every possible way for this to go wrong competed for attention in that moment, especially when Anatole himself stared her up and down with those wide and insolent eyes. Every second she allowed him to do so the more he could disclose, such as how her cheeks flushed a long-forgotten scarlet, or how her hands clenched so tight in front of her they turned white at the knuckle.

 

“If you’ll excuse me,” Marya said hurriedly, ducking around the corner into the hallway. It was empty - the one blessing that night - allowing her to regain her composure before rejoining the girls at the box.

 

For the rest of the evening, she could not focus. Not on the opera, nor on the girls, even when Natasha’s expression grew tender.


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One must assume Helene was the one to invite Marya to the ball, as you see little of them throughout the whole scene ;)

Dear Marya,

As you very well know, it is a great pleasure to myself and my brother to host a costume ball each year as the winter solstice approaches. The ballroom has been so empty each year without you to keep me company, so I expect that you attend this year. I know that the notice is short and that you would be hard-pressed to find appropriate frock, but I have faith in your ability. Should you arrive in the same costume as you did years ago though I hold nothing against you, for it did flatter you so.  
The girls are invited too, of course, and I look forward to properly meeting them. How angelic they looked at the opera last night, your lovely Natasha truly is a sight to behold. How is it that you’ve managed to hide them from me for so long? It is a shame that they’ve never truly seen Moscow, so I do hope that they attend.  
As for you, ma’cheri, the hallways have missed the aroma of your perfume, the crowds your dignified smile. If you do not attend know that I will find some way to coax you back to me. Some say that the cure for old attachments is to form new, but as you’ve undoubtedly heard my efforts have fallen short. Though it may be a memory that recaptures your grace as holier than it was in truth, I still taste every grail you crossed. Not even years have erased such recollection, and I know because such things transcend the singular consciousness that you must remember similarly.

I’ll be dressed as a butterfly, waiting until you arrive

H

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Hélène,

Writing that letter was a mistake on your part, reading it on mine. You’re shameless, and you’re cruel, and you have no inkling of self respect. I shouldn’t expect anything more from you, but it seems you have let me down again. I don’t need you anymore, and your assumption to the contrary is frankly insulting. You are inconsistent, and your wavering attention grows tiresome. I will give you one more chance to assure me that that letter was a lie.

Marya Dmitrievna Ahkrosimova

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dear Marya,

It causes me deep anguish to learn of your true thoughts toward me. I sincerely hope that this is a symptom of my brother’s discovery of our rendezvous at the opera, and must tell you if that is the case that he has known about us for a decade. You underestimate his caring nature, Dearest, for he has withheld our trysts from prying ears for longer than he has held on to any secret. He cares deeply for me, and by definition, for you. If his appealing side is not enough to sway you, he fears you. You are one of few threats to him in Moscow, and he knows better than to risk your rage.  
If he is not the reason for your abrupt dismissal of my sentiment I would understand. All that I might say to vouch for my own character is that times have changed. Pierre is a fool and has well since come to terms with my thinking so. Something my infidelity may have blinded you to is that he thinks similarly of me. Our estrangement is not solely my doing, and he has taken equal strides to distance himself from me, in less honorable ways, I might add. To seclude himself the ways he does is pathetic, Dearest, and you cannot call me cruel to say so. It is not my doing that he does not visit any more than it is yours. He doesn’t know about us, so there is no need to fear.  
I implore you again, come to the ball. My brother will be distracted and you will not so much as see him, as will Pierre.

My hopes rest on your wishes,

H

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dear Hélène,

I’ll consider it.

Marya Dmitrievna Ahkrosimova


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year! Here's some dramatic B.S. I have to admit parts of the outburst at the end may be less of Marya's feelings and a few of mine.

As the celebration began, chatter once again filled the Kuragin family ballroom. For the biggest event of the year, Hélène, as the evening’s hostess, would not be outdone. She swept into the room with great, splendid strides, one hand delicately pinching a corner of her shining skirt as it graced the floor. She allotted smiles like sweets, occasionally throwing in a wink at those she was particularly fond of. As she glided through the room she admired the atmosphere, her atmosphere. Tables had been set up at the back walls, and were laden with decadent food and drink. Counts and countesses studded the floor, shining with a thousand gemstones which adorned breasts and necklines. Few were as dangerous as Hélène, of course, so she stood out like the moon among stars. This was where she was most comfortable. Here, she had no obligation to remain with one person for long and could avoid anybody she chose to with plentiful excuses to do so. Here, she had the choice, and she relished in it. For each jaw that slackened at the sight of her there was another that rolled, whether with jealousy or lust Hélène didn’t know nor care. Here, she could not be judged. It was truly a spectacle.  
Hélène caught sight of a family friend, and joy filled her chest as she headed for her. She made it all but two feet before Anatole stepped right in front of her, and she had to brace herself on his shoulder to avoid crashing to the floor.

 

“Tolya!” she gasped, steadying herself and looking him in the face. For the first time in recent memory he looked worried. “What is it?”

 

“Did you invite Natasha?” he asked, lacing and unlacing his fingers.

 

“Of course, dear brother,” she said, looking up at him quizzically. “Has she not arrived yet?” With a jolt, she remembered Marya’s missive. It had been vaguer than was characteristic, and though she had followed up with Natasha hours ago she hadn’t told Anatole of Marya’s apprehension. “I’ll go check for you, alright? I’ll be right back.” She began to push through the crowd, leaving him in a confused daze.  
The buzz of the crowd was monotonous, broken up occasionally by bursts of laughter or the abrupt tuning of an instrument. If the band had begun to play she would’ve had no chance of reaching the door when she did.

 

“But Marya,” came Natasha’s sweet voice from beyond the door. “You aren’t going to leave us here are you?”

 

“Of course not, Dear.”

 

Marya. She had come after all. Relief sent shivers down Hélène’s spine.

 

“But we aren’t staying long, am I clear?”

 

A chorus of agreement followed, and almost before Hélène could leap out of the way the doors opened to reveal Sonya and Natasha dressed all in white. Clearly, the costumes had been thrown together with what materials Marya had on hand. Both girls wore similar white gowns to the ones they’d worn to the opera, the main difference being the halos of white fur stitched into crowns atop their heads. Sonya looked toward Natasha rather than to the crowd, and she was not the only one. Nobody in the room seemed to care that the costumes were haphazard. The chatter among the guests quieted as they scanned their new targets. Hélène’s eyes were just beyond, however, latching onto the chaperone.

 

To the rest of Moscow, Marya was old news - as was her taste in fashion. Hélène found though that she would never get tired of it, nor had she learned to expect anything out of her wardrobe (she fondly recalled a pair of leather pants Marya wore to their rendezvouses on occasion). Tonight she had opted for a mostly black ensemble with the exception of her trademark red shawl wrapped closely around her top. Otherwise, a high collar of feathers shot up around her neck, spreading over her shoulders and jutting off the sides like knives. The waistband too was made of thickly cloistered black feathers which exploded at the waist into layers of black lace intricately patterned with glittering thread. She held a feathered mask on a stick at her hip. It made Hélène a bit weak in the knees. She wasn’t sure what else she expected, but Marya’s proud resurgence was nearly enough to send Hélène sprawling at her feet singing “take me, I’m yours!”

 

Instead, Hélène glanced around the room and found Anatole and Dolokhov waiting like wolves at the front of the crowd. Anatole’s gaze affixed on Natasha, and Dolokhov’s eyes lingered on Sonya. Hélène simply turned a blind eye, for perhaps this night could help Natasha to realize the mistake she was making by remaining betrothed. With this in mind, Hélène took an approach from the opposite side, her heart hammering as she reached a hand toward Marya’s shoulder. Before she could make contact Marya whirled around, her feathered collar emphasizing the look of an angry raven.

 

“I hope you’re happy,” she hissed. Marya’s eyes darted just above Hélène’s head and for a moment Hélène feared she’d spotted Anatole. Instead, she heaved a sigh. “Really? Wings?”

 

Hélène’s coy smile returned. “Couldn’t resist,” she said, performing a twirl, sending her skirt fanning out around her. “It seems you couldn’t either.” She nodded at Marya’s skirt, where threads glittered beneath the candlelight.

 

“I haven’t changed,” she said shortly. The air between them crackled as Hélène’s attempt at lightheartedness splintered. Marya jerked her head to the side, to an empty corner of the room. “We need to set some boundaries.”

 

“You know, when you used to suggest we find somewhere private-”

 

“Stop there.”

 

“Oh, yes, ma’am.”

 

Marya gave her a look. Hélène frowned and stepped aside so they could find their way to the corner. Here the air was stale, and the laughter was muffled. Glasses had somehow already fallen, their contents sloshed onto the marble floor. Here, there was just her and Marya, braced against the weight of silence. Marya had hardly aged a day since they were together, the only exception being heavy bags around her eyes. They were ever-present now, as if Marya hadn’t a decent night’s sleep in a long time. Tentatively, Hélène reached up and touched Marya’s cheek. Lightly, like the brush of a bird’s wing.

 

“How long has this been going on?”

 

Marya batted Hélène’s hand away, taking a definitive step back. “This is exactly the problem, you have no semblance of boundaries.” She looked at Hélène with something that might have been reservation. “Have years done nothing to you?” Immediately after she said it Marya looked as if she regretted it. Hélène’s shoulders fell.

 

“Is that what this is about? You think that I never think about it?” she asked, overcome with a great wave of relief. “I thought all this time it was about Pierre-”

 

“It was!” Marya exclaimed, her fists clenching at her sides. Hélène flinched. “It was until I saw that he truly didn’t care for you, and I was actually happy that you finally realized it! I thought that once you found he didn’t love you that you’d realize you made a mistake! Do you know how much time I’ve spent reliving the day you left?! How much time I spent absolutely sure it was me!”

 

Hélène could do nothing but listen.

 

“Do you even regret it?! Would you trade this life for the one we might have had? Would it have been worth it to you? You told me that I wasn’t enough for you, do you know what that did to me?!”

 

For the first time in decades, tears welled in Marya’s eyes.

 

“You really want to know why I haven’t been sleeping? Perhaps if you’d paid attention for the past nine years you’d have figured it out by now.”

 

“Marya-”

 

“Coming here was a mistake.” Marya took a handkerchief out of the inner pocket of her shawl and dabbed at her eyes. “Get the girls home before midnight.”

 

“Marya-”

 

“I don’t want to hear it.” Before Hélène could stop her, Marya was already headed towards the door. It closed behind her with a sharp slam, leaving Hélène standing helplessly in the corner.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Abduction
> 
> *warning and also potential spoilers*  
> f x f kiss and insinuation of adult content  
> This chapter takes up a fifth of all the words so far, and it's all I have as of now. Let me know if you want more!

Marya sat in a chair by the window, watching the snow drift gently to the ground. Ever since the fiasco of the ball she’d been spending more time here, thinking. The regret that followed her words to Hélène sunk in immediately after she’d arrived home. She cared little for Hélène’s reaction to them (or so she told herself), but the all-consuming fear that its contents might get out tormented her. After all, she’d exploded in a very public place. Shadows, she’d learned, did not mute sound, and there was a higher chance than not that somebody had overheard. It was luck, simple and plain, that had spared them from Moscow’s prying ear in their carefree days. She leaned against the cool glass, grateful for the chill. It brought her back down to earth. Lord knew she needed it.

 

Suddenly she felt a presence by her side, and Marya jumped and turned in her chair. There stood Sonya, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.

 

“Sonyushka, what is it?” Marya looked up, folding her hands in her lap.

 

Sonya closed her eyes and opened them again, a determined look that Marya couldn’t recall ever seeing before in her gentle goddaughter’s face settling there. Sonya's fingers fidgeted.

“Something’s going to happen tonight. Something to do with Natasha,” she said finally, averting her gaze from Marya’s.

 

Marya straightened, her eyes suddenly alert. “What is it?”

 

“You know Anatole, Countess Bezuhkova’s brother?” Dread filled Marya’s stomach. “He- he plans to take her away tonight, Natasha told me so herself-”

 

“He what?!” Marya stood from her chair, nearly knocking it over in the process. “How long have you known this?”

 

“She got the letter yesterday!” Sonya’s cheeks were flushed with passion though her stance was still defensive. “And I- I wasn’t sure whether to say anything because I was hoping Natasha would’ve thought it through and realized it was a terrible idea by now, but she’s as convinced as ever!”

 

Horror coursed through Marya’s blood, raising a deep red in her cheekbones. Hélène hadn’t told her at the ball, hadn’t even sent a message! Such thoughts sent fire running through her veins. But then she remembered Hélène’s words at the opera: “I do not trust myself to be able to stop him”. She had warned Marya, long before this must’ve begun. Marya had just been too blind to see it.

 

“You will say nothing to Natasha,” Marya said, her hands finding the back of the chair and holding it so tightly her knuckles went white. “I will confront Anatole myself if he has the gall to show himself tonight.”

 

Sonya nodded, though apprehension was still written clearly across her face.

 

Marya moved the chair and placed her hands on Sonya’s shoulders. “Thank you for telling me. Now go. Distract Natasha for the rest of the day. Keep her upstairs, will you? I’ll have dinner brought up.”

 

Sonya nodded again and left the room.

 

Marya spent the following hours pacing. She refused the dinner the servants brought her, deigning instead to sit by the fire with a glass of rum clenched in shaking fingers. She nearly dropped the glass several times in her instability, and got up to leave the house so many times she lost count. She stopped with her fingertips inches from the knob, knowing against her indulgent side that she must wait. She returned to her chair growing more frustrated each time.

 

The hours passed, and after what seemed millennia the windows darkened and the fire danced blue and red in the panes of her empty glass. Marya tapped her fingers on the arm of her chair. She jumped with every sound, for every footstep in the halls must be the clatter of hoofbeats, the scrape of a chair the thunderous roll of wooden wheels. Her gaze flicked to the window every few seconds, and each time was greeted only by the tauntingly consistent snowfall. With each passing moment her heart hardened further, steeling with resolve. Just as she’d risen halfway out of her chair to find Anatole herself someone knocked rapidly on the door. She flew to the foyer, throwing open the door to find none other than Hélène, shivering with cold.

 

“Countess- What could possibly give you the right to show up here?” She demanded, glancing above her curly-topped head to survey the streets. Still empty.

 

“Marya-” Hélène exhaled with relief, looking up at her and pulling her cloak tighter around herself. “Thank God, can I come in?”

 

“I have nothing to say to you.”

 

“Marya- you must, please hear me out, my brother-”

 

“I know. Now leave,” Marya said, looking down at Hélène with contempt, “If you care for anybody but yourself then stop him before I tear him apart myself.”

 

“Marya, I do, please let me in I must talk to you,” Hélène pleaded, “You act like I haven’t tried. Dolokhov and I - we’ve tried our best but he stole ten thousand rubles from both of us-”

 

“He stole from you?!” Marya exclaimed. She sighed and rubbed her forehead, stepping aside for Hélène to come in.

 

Marya set a samovar on the coffee table and sat across from Hélène. Hélène had shirked her cloak and sat turned toward the fire. She never dressed for Moscow’s harsh conditions, and would never listen to Marya when she insisted upon it. A powdering of snow still lightly dusted her hair. Neither of them spoke until Hélène held a hot cup of tea to her chest.

 

“So you did try to stop him,” Marya said reluctantly.

 

“I swear you search for reasons to hate me, Marusya.” Hélène did not take her eyes from Marya as she took a sip.

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

Hélène sighed, setting down her cup. “I did try. Both of us did - Dolokhov and I. But it’s like I told you - Anatole serves nobody and expects everyone to serve him.”

 

“And did you?” Marya said, her eyes boring into Hélène’s.

 

“At the beginning. Even at the ball I thought that maybe this should take place. That it was important, even,” Hélène admitted, frustratingly unable to meet Marya’s eyes. Questions expanded in Marya’s chest faster than she could ask them before Hélène continued. “Don’t judge me too harshly, you know how I feel about marriage.”

 

“I know how you feel about monogamy.”

 

“This is different, look at the mistake Natasha was about to make!”

 

“Mistake?” Marya said, her tone dangerously low. “Marrying into the Bolkonsky family, saving her own in the process is a mistake in your eyes? A judgment you hardly have the right to make.”

 

“It’s exactly my right! I did exactly that, it’s what all of us do!” Hélène insisted desperately, “We marry for advantage and are tied down for all eternity under a man’s name. You know it better than anyone, Marya-”

 

“I have no man’s name,” Marya growled. Her hands clenched around the arms of her chair so hard her biceps strained.

 

“And why is that, Marya?”

 

“Because I can afford not to marry, Natasha cannot,” Marya said quickly, feeling herself falling into another one of Hélène’s traps. It was just as terrible every time she experienced it.

 

“I doubt that.”

 

“And you truly believe I have remained unmarried for nearly a decade because of you.” Marya realized only after a smirk began to slowly spread over Hélène’s face that Hélène had never suggested such a thing. Marya stood, her teacup in one shaking hand, desperate to escape. Just as she was about to turn into the kitchen Hélène spoke.

 

“I think you’ve remained unmarried because you cannot bear to lose any more than you have,” she said. “And that you’re not so inclined to pursue comfort in the opposite sex.”

 

Marya’s heart stopped. “That is a dangerous assumption, Hélène.”

 

“Is it not true? You hardly notice the powerful men of Moscow, but I drew your eye. Has it not wandered since?”

 

“How do you know that it hasn’t?”

 

“Because you told me so,” Hélène said. Marya could hear the chair creak as she stood. A shiver ran down her spine as she felt Hélène standing behind her. “The Great Dragon does not stop when she wants something. I remember very clearly what you’re like when you want something.” Now Marya could feel her breath feathery on the back of her neck.

 

“I was careless - I said things I didn’t mean-”

 

“I don’t believe you.”

 

Marya whipped around and found Hélène watching her. Her expression held dignity and insight that she couldn’t recall seeing there before. It was terrifying and infuriating. She didn’t know whether to throw her teacup at Hélène’s head or to smack the smirk off her face. Memories crashed down in her mind as she stared down Hélène, each one worse than the last. First came the party - Hélène was taking her hand and yanking her into a corridor - She was pressed against Hélène with her mouth to Hélène’s neck. It was cruel. It was merciless. Tension built up in her chest until it spilled into her blood and Hélène was coming closer. She saw Hélène take her hand but Marya was not truly there, for her mind still raced with Hélène’s hands on her waist and her fingers tangled in Hélène’s hair; and in a split second her hand had snapped free of Hélène’s grip and leapt to her face, yanking her forward into a searing kiss.

 

God, the familiarity. Her heart pounded and with every second she sank deeper, forgetting every reason why she’d waited. It was strong and fierce, and Hélène’s warm hands slid over Marya’s shoulders and down her back, gripping her waist and pulling her closer until she molded to every curve. God, she missed this. The surge, the fearlessness. She missed dragging her fingers through Hélène’s soft hair, the taste of Hélène’s lipstick and the feel of pearls pressed to her skin. She needed to feel it again, no matter the consequences.

 

“I’m sorry,” she gasped against Hélène’s mouth, finding her hand and lacing their fingers.

 

“For what, ma’cheri?”

 

“For waiting so long. Pierr-”

 

“Don’t,” Hélène murmured. Marya shivered at the sound. “Don’t mention him right now.” Her free hand traveled up Marya’s back and cupped her neck. The soft pads of her fingers on Marya’s skin sent chills down her spine. It couldn't be this easy. For a moment she just listened to the sound of Hélène’s breathing, letting it ground her. Hélène lifted her chin and looked right into Marya’s eyes, truly seeing her for the first time.

 

“What the years have done to you, Marusya,” she said, achingly soft. “It hasn’t truly been so long, has it?”

 

Marya might have laughed had the situation not been so bittersweet. “It has.”

 

Hélène pulled her back into another kiss, this one softer, and sweeter. She tasted the rum and tea, and found that the traces of herself were just as they had been. Marya truly hadn’t changed after all this time. Hélène’s fingers felt every bit like home as they shouldn’t have felt on the back of her neck, gently pressing as she held Marya to her. She ran her hands across Hélène’s back, gliding into the divets between her shoulder blades made clear by thin fabric, unnaturally smooth like most garments Hélène opted for. She wound her fingers through the pearls around Hélène’s neck, resting her arms around Hélène’s shoulders.

 

This time it was Hélène who broke the embrace, parting only enough to regain breath. Still, Hélène’s eyes were all Marya could see, wide and smiling. 

“Tell me what you want. Anything. I owe it to you.” Her words dripped with regret, bitter like old tea in contrast with the sweetness in her face.

 

“I want you,” Marya said, letting her voice slip into a growl that she knew drove Hélène crazy. “Like we used to.”

 

Hélène smiled, and the bitterness ebbed from her voice. “As you wish.”

 

The rest of the evening was a sky full of stars. The two of them laid bare after far too long before a steady fire, Hélène’s hands everywhere that had missed her. It was bourbon and spice, and the resynchronizing of their hearts. It was perfect. For a while.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The night shattered with the sound of stampeding troikas and the unsubtle screams of alcohol-influenced mischief. Marya’s head jerked up, her hair yanking from where it was caught under Hélène’s elbow. She’d completely forgotten.

 

“Hélène! Hélène, get up-” she shook Hélène’s arm, carefully extricating their legs as she scrambled to her feet. Hélène’s head perked to find Marya frantically yanking her top back over her shoulders, nearly missing the head-hole in the process. She leapt up as well, gathering the voluptuous material of her gown in her arms as Marya sprinted for the balcony, her shawl wrapped haphazardly around her.

 

Marya’s heart raced as she wiped what was left of her lipstick from her mouth with the back of her hand, sprinting up the stairs and shoving open the glass doors. She threw herself into the bitter cold. Surveying the scene, her erratic panic cleared into a sharp rage. Troikas gathered in an uneven semi-circle around the back entrance, blocking off the scene from neighbors as two figures jumped out of the closest one. Laughter followed them as the troika’s horn blared in the night. One figure stopped to talk with the maid that waited by the gate while the other rammed the gates open with his shoulder. In the light from the streetlamp, his hair gleamed bright blonde. Marya rolled up her sleeves and planted her hands on the cold metal.

 

“Kuragin!” She roared. The night blurred. Anatole froze like a deer. “Leave this place!” Before she could continue, Anatole turned on his heel and sprinted for the gates.  
The lights muddled together and she could not even feel the biting cold. Snow swirled in quick flurries that shielded the screeching troikas from view. Her head spun and her cheeks heated and her fingers closed so tightly around the thin metal banister her nails dug into her palms on the other side. She pushed off and blew back inside and down the stairs, rearing on Hélène just as she was about to open the doors.

 

“Yelena!” She barked, slamming the door closed and planting her hand there, just beside Hélène’s head. Hélène jumped and turned, eyes wide, most of her bodice still undone.

 

“M-Masha, I was just about to get my bro-”

 

“I don’t want to hear it!” Marya spat. In that moment the pure fury burned so brightly in her eyes they might have combusted, all the softness of the evening gone. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?! You had plenty of time! Natasha will be ruined now- it will get out and there’s no way to stop that! Andrei will return and challenge that fool if Illya does not get here first!” Marya moved her hand from the door and began to pace, burying her fingers in her hair. “I can’t believe I fell for this again! And you!” Marya reared again on Hélène, who shrank against the door. “You really had me convinced!” She let out a brutal laugh. It was a terrible sound - brittle and unfamiliar.

 

“Masha please don’t say something you’ll re-”

 

“What?! Regret?!” Marya threw her shawl against the stair railing. “Clearly it’s a night for that! How could you be so careless! You knew about this!”

 

“As did you,” Hélène pointed out, straightening her shoulders. “You enjoyed tonight just as much as I did! Tonight was a symptom of both our misgivings.”

 

“Get out of my house.”

 

The echo was the worst part of it. The mirror shards of memory that chanted it back to her. Get out, get out, get out. The last time she’d commanded such a thing it had cost her nine years. Nine years for a single night. A single hour. Her heart dropped into her stomach. Hélène slipped out the door before she could take it back.


End file.
